


To Numb the Pain

by dreamerinfic



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Boys are still healing, Comforter Quentin, Eliot's Alcoholic Tendencies, Established Relationship, Everyone Is Alive, Hurt Eliot Waugh, M/M, Post-Episode: s04e13 No Better To Be Safe Than Sorry, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Quentin Coldwater is a fighter, Quentin Coldwater is brave, Recovering in the Penthouse, queliot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24036076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamerinfic/pseuds/dreamerinfic
Summary: Eliot has the monster's memories, he sees flashes of blood, the killing of innocents and gods in his mind...but he hasn't told Quentin...or anyone. He thought he was handling it on his own, not burdening the person he cares most about. But now, without the aid of a bottle, he might not be able to handle it anymore. He's trying to give up drinking, for Quentin. But sometimes he just has to run away, he has to numb the pain...and then there's Q.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	To Numb the Pain

**Author's Note:**

> I see this taking place a few months after the end of season 4. They've both healed and are somewhat functional, but are both still dealing with the trauma of Eliot's possession. They've had the love talk and are together in a committed relationship. I picture them still living in the penthouse while the others go about their business and leave them mostly to their own devices. In my mind this would take place around the time that Season 5 picks up, so as in the series, we see him falling into his old vices to cope, since he is keeping the secret from Margo and everyone that he remembers the monster and has his memories...In this fic Quentin is the main person he is hiding this from, and Quentin has convinced him to try to give up his coping mechanisms.

Eliot sat on the balcony of the penthouse with a cigarette hanging from his fingertips. He was looking out over New York City, but the beauty of the view escaped him. What he was seeing in his mind’s eye was not fit for human consumption. It was gods and blood, violence and death, and more…so much more. He pulled at his waistcoat and smoothed back his too long hair. He felt like an alien in his own skin these days. The time he’d been gone had changed his body in ways that were taking some time to get used to. He supposed he should get a haircut. Perhaps that would help. 

He shook his head, an errant curl falling down in his eyes. It was foolish to think anything would help his situation. It wasn’t like there was a manual for the recently possessed. His mind felt broken, and he was pretty sure a new haircut, clothes that fit, and chain smoking night and day weren’t going to do anything to fix it. He took a shaky breath and let his eyes slip towards the place where he’d hidden the bottle. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the urge to numb the pain. He took a deep drag from the cigarette and willed himself to relax, watched as the smoke blew into the hazy New York sky. When he looked down again his hand was shaking…Damn, nothing was helping. What the fuck was wrong with him today? Why couldn’t he get the fucking monster out of his thoughts? He looked towards the hidden liquor bottle again. 

Quentin wouldn’t want this. He’d asked Eliot to stop drinking…begged him. Eliot knew that his drinking had been out of control before he went to Fillory and with a certainty he knew he’d be dead now if he hadn’t been crowned high king of a fantasy kingdom instead. Quentin hadn’t wanted to relive those days. He’d sat Eliot down and had an intervention. Hearing Quentin pour out his heart about how he didn’t want anything to come between them again, not magic, not monsters, not gods…and not alcohol, had motivated Eliot to pour every drop down the drain. But he was weak…had always been weak. It had only been a few days later that he found himself secreting liquor into the penthouse and hiding it away with illusion magic. He’d tried, but sometimes the monster’s memories were just too much. Sometimes even Quentin couldn’t calm his quaking nerves. Sometimes he just needed to run away…like he always had. 

He rose from his seat and walked towards the corner of the balcony. He tried hard to steady his shaking hands as he executed the tut to dispel the illusion. A bottle of scotch appeared out of nowhere and he audibly sighed in relief as he bent to pick it up. The cool glass felt soothing on his fevered skin and he cradled it carefully as he opened it, as if it was a precious heirloom. He wasted no time tipping it to his lips and drinking deep, the alcohol burning a searing path over his tongue and down his throat. He imagined it warming his insides, soothing the synapses in his mind, quieting the monster that seemed determined to torture him today. 

Then suddenly there was a voice behind him, “El.”

He jerked around guiltily to see Quentin standing in the doorway. He was watching him with a sad expression, his brown eyes wide and hurt as they took in the scene. Eliot stood with the bottle clutched hard in his hands. He made no move to put it down, he made no sound of apology, he just stood there, staring at Quentin as if he could will him to understand. Understand that he was breaking inside, that he needed something to help him stop the pain, just for a moment. 

“El, what are you doing?” Quentin asked gently, carefully, as if the moment was made of glass. 

Eliot opened his mouth and tried to respond, but no words came out. He gripped the scotch tighter to his chest and tried to communicate. Please Quentin, please just understand…but nothing happened. He just stood there, gripping the bottle, breath coming hard and fast like he’d been running from his demons through the Neitherlands. 

“Come inside,” Quentin tried, beckoning him with a hand out, open. 

Eliot forced his legs to move towards the door, towards Quentin. He took his hand and allowed himself to be led inside. He felt the familiar space surround him…he was safe…he was loved…but.

“What are you doing?” Quentin asked in a firmer voice, now that he had Eliot inside. “Eliot, we talked about this…we agreed. What in the hell do you think you’re doing to yourself?”

Eliot’s brain caught on the first words Quentin had uttered, the tone, the frustration. A flash of memory hit him. 

Pill Bottles…Quentin...'What are you doing?'…Throwing him across the room…Pills scattered on the floor…A brave, foolish human standing in front of him, threatening him…for the sake of Eliot. 'Eliot, Eliot, Eliot…Why do you care about him so much?'…hands wrapped tight around a neck…squeezing…squeezing harder…Quentin’s eyes. 

“Q,” The name was wrenched from Eliot on a sob that shook him to his knees. He dropped the bottle to the floor, forgotten. He clenched his eyes shut tight, not wanting to see anymore. Please god don’t let him see anymore. 

Quentin rushed towards him, hands holding him, pulling him close. Eliot felt nauseous, his guts twisting in terror. He gripped his stomach and bent towards the floor, retching and coughing, the scotch burning it’s way back up. 

There was a cool hand on his brow, stroking, soothing. A voice in his ear whispering words of comfort, words of love. His too long hair was pulled back away from his face, out of the way as he spilled the contents of his empty stomach onto the floor of the penthouse in an ungraceful and pathetic manner. 

When it was over he collapsed back against Quentin’s solid chest feeling lifeless and more broken than ever. Sounds that sounded like half choked whimpers drifted to his ears and he realized they were coming from his own raw throat. 

“Shhhh, Shhhhh, You’re ok, El. I’ve got you,” Quentin murmured into his hair. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Q,” Eliot choked out on a hoarse whisper. 

“It’s ok, El. We’ll deal with it; we’ll throw it out again. Just promise me no more liquor,” Quentin said gently. 

“No,” Eliot sat up with a jerk and turned to look Quentin in the eye. He reached for his hand and gripped it like a lifeline. “No…not for that…For...For him, Q. The monster. I’m so sorry.”

Quentin brushed his free hand over Eliot’s wet cheek, “Baby, it wasn’t your fault. You know that right? I don’t blame you for any of what happened.”

“No,” Eliot protested again, “You don’t understand.” He closed his eyes tight. “I can see it…what he did while he was in me. I have his memories.” The last was said so softly that if Quentin hadn’t been sitting right there he wouldn’t have heard him.

“You…what? El…you…fuck, no.” 

“Not all the time. But when I’m quiet, when I try to rest and you’re not there, when I’m alone…I see them, like visions, like flashes of memory across my mind. And,” a sob broke out of him as he spoke and he took a moment to fight for control, “it’s awful…bloody…gore and death.” And then he met Quentin’s eyes, tear filled hazel meeting wide open, rich brown, “And you…Q…you…god, what he did to you…because of me. I can’t stand it, Q. And I’m so, so sorry.”

“All this time…Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ask for help?” Quentin asked in a voice thick with emotion.

Eliot stroked a hand over Quentin’s face. “You’ve been through so much and you’re dealing with your own trauma. I thought I was handling it…I thought I could do it by myself.”

Quentin looked at the bottle of scotch lying forgotten on the floor and heaved a deep sigh. “By running away…by covering it up with alcohol and drugs…You know that’s not the way, don’t you?”

Eliot looked at the floor bleakly, refusing to meet Quentin’s eyes. 

“You know you don’t have to do things alone. That’s why I’m here, El. I’m here for you.”

Eliot shook his head minutely, his answer so soft it could barely be heard. “I don’t deserve it.”

Strong arms encircled him and pulled him close. He nestled his head in Quentin’s chest and let his tears soak into his shirt. He clung to him like he was a life raft in a sea of waves.

“Hey, let’s get you cleaned up and into bed,” Quentin suggested after what seemed like an eternity spent tangled together on the floor trying to calm racing hearts, sick stomachs, and short breaths. 

He let himself be pulled to his feet and stumbled into the bedroom. He was only a passive participant as Quentin pulled his clothes off and then led him to the bathroom. He watched silently as Quentin handed him a toothbrush and then went to the shower to adjust the water. As Eliot went through the motions he was conscious of Quentin’s constant presence. By the time Eliot stepped out of the shower Quentin had brushed his own teeth and had stripped down to his boxers. He helped Eliot dry off and took his hand, leading him to the bed and helping him under the covers. 

He melted into the bed feeling wrung out and hollow. His eyes closed of their own accord and he was only dimly aware of Quentin crawling in beside him. There was a soft press of lips against his brow and then he was gathered up into strong arms and cradled as he drifted into sleep. His last thought before dreams took him was not of the monster, but of Quentin, all loving and open and safe, and willing to put in the work to be with him. 

When he opened his eyes again morning light was streaming into their bedroom through the cracks in the white blinds. He turned his head where it rested against Quentin’s shoulder and followed a beam of light up to his relaxed face, bow lips fallen open, long silky hair strewn over his forehead partially hiding his closed eyes. Their bodies had pressed tight against each other during the night and Eliot’s hand, which rested on Quentin’s solid chest, began to trace patterns in the hair that peppered the golden expanse. Quentin stirred next to him, stretching and moaning as he struggled to wakefulness. His hand settled in Eliot’s hair and stroked absently. Eliot hummed in response. 

They lay like that, idly stroking and petting what parts of each other were within reach until awareness returned in full with the bright morning light. Eliot glanced at Quentin’s face and saw his brain working under that hooded gaze. “Thinking?” he asked in what he hoped passed for a light tone. Quentin waited a beat before responding tentatively, “What did you see? When you collapsed yesterday…what memory was it?”

He heaved a deep sigh and looked away, he had suspected that Quentin would want to know more about his revelation the night before, but he was hoping for more of a reprieve. He rolled to his back and reached for Quentin’s hand, twining their fingers together. “I’ve seen you in his memories before…you weren’t always with him, but…you were there more than the others. I know about his sick obsession with you…and I can’t help thinking that it’s my fault, he felt that way about you because of us…our connection.”

“Eliot…”

“No, Quentin, I know how he treated you. I’ve seen him hurt you, I’ve seen him torture you, make you do things that you never would’ve thought,” his voice broke and he lapsed into silence. Quentin squeezed his hand, “What was it this time though…yesterday why did you…?”

“You asked me what I was doing, and you were frustrated…but those words…you asked him the same thing. He was after more pills, and you…you came in, stopped him. But he put his hands around your throat…because of me…’Eliot, Eliot, Eliot…why do you care about him so much?’ and he squeezed…he was killing you. And you just stared back at him with those beautiful eyes…so hard…threatening him…daring him.”

“I wasn’t afraid. I had to protect you, stop him from hurting you.”

Eliot shook his head sadly and wiped at his eyes, “Just one flex of the fingers and you wouldn’t be here now…Fuck Q…Fuck.” He covered his face with his hands and let out a sob. 

“Hey, it’s ok. I’m ok. I’m here,” Quentin was moving over him, straddling his hips, needing him to feel how alive he was. He stroked his hand over Eliot’s hair, his cheek, his jaw. He leaned in close, “I wasn’t thinking about me when that happened. I wasn’t worried about what he could do to me. The only thing I cared about was you. I just wanted you to make it through…and you did…and so did I.” Quentin leaned in and kissed him gently, soothing his soul with lips touching against lips. He cradled Eliot’s tear streaked face in his hands. “We’re here together, ok? I’m here with you…we go through this together, you and me. Please,” Quentin pleaded softly as he as he pressed their lips together again. 

Eliot nodded weakly and his arms wound around Quentin to pull him closer. “I’m glad you’re here…if you weren’t…I don’t know if I could do it…It’s so hard.”

Quentin stroked has hands over his shoulders, massaging the tension away, feeling Eliot relax in tiny increments. “I know it’s hard,” he dropped a kiss onto Eliot’s collarbone. “Just promise me you won’t try to do it alone, ok. I want to know what you’re dealing with…I want to help you. This…this is big…this is scary, and you’ve been doing it all alone.” He pressed his lips to his jawline and traced his tongue over to his ear. He pressed their bodies together tightly…skin on skin. Lips against Eliot’s ear he pleaded urgently, “Tell me you won’t do it alone…please, say it, El.”

He felt Eliot’s fingers stroke down his back in slow, mindless strokes as he waited for what seemed an eternity for a response. He leaned back and looked down into watery, hazel depths. “El?” 

“I promise,” he whispered at last. “I can’t promise I’ll be good at it though,” he added honestly. 

“I’ll help,” Quentin replied earnestly. “And we’ll get you whatever other help you need to get better, to learn how to deal with those memories.”

Eliot face contorted, “You mean like therapy?”

Quentin shrugged and ran his hands lightly over Eliot’s rib cage. “I mean whatever gets you to the other side of this whole.”

Eliot chuckled softly, “I don’t know if I’ve ever been whole.”

He smirked back at him sadly, “Me either…but, I know that we have a future…and I want to fight for it. The monster didn’t take you from me before, and I’m not going to let him take you from me now…Please, don’t try to run away anymore. Fight with me, okay?”

Eliot’s eyes sparked with a kind of hope at the mention of their future. He looked back at Quentin with so much love and trust. Brokenly, he answered the love of his life, his hero, his best friend…”Okay.”

This was something worth fighting for…together.


End file.
